


Relics of a Bygone Age

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asshole Geraldus, Fluff, Just another fic of Raymond getting his ass beat, M/M, Protective!David, Protective!Diarmuid, Romance, Sexual Harassment, Sleazebag Raymond de Merville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28837857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Modern AU. David gets a job as a security guard for a high-end antique store. He likes the quiet. He likes the store clerk, Diarmuid. He doesn't like his boss, Geraldus.And he absolutely hates Raymond de Merville, the customer who keeps coming in to hit on Diarmuid.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	Relics of a Bygone Age

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to whittle down a long list of fics I have to write, and this was one of them! Just more sleazebag Raymond and David protecting Diarmuid, because that's my jam.
> 
> Warning for sexual harassment, as Geraldus doesn't care if customers make Diarmuid uncomfortable and Diarmuid has to pretend to be nice (until David can be mean for him, that is).

He wasn’t allowed to speak.

That was the first thing the manager, Geraldus, said to him. He ushered David into his office, motioned for him to sit—David squeezed himself into a chair that was too small for him and prayed it didn’t buckle under his weight—and pulled his résumé out of a folder and read it.

There were two typos in it. David had been as careful as he could as he filled out the application with his hunt-and-peck typing, had read it and reread it and it’d looked good so he’d sent it. But then his nerves had gotten the better of him and he’d skimmed through it once more to assure himself he hadn’t missed a section and—Goddamn, two typos. Not right in the beginning, thank Christ, but still—would it get noticed? Would it be enough to get his application thrown out? They were looking for a security guard, not a—a teacher, or anything, but even so—

Two typos. He watched Geraldus’s facial expressions, trying to tell if that raised eyebrow or that haughty sniff was an indication that the man had found the mistakes and found him wanting.

But instead, after a long, long five minutes of slowly reading through his three-page résumé—one cover letter, painstakingly written, and two pages of actual job history—Geraldus looked up and said, “You can’t speak.”

And David, confused, corrected, “Uh, I can, sir.”

“No,” said the store manager with a sigh, “I mean that if I were to hire you—which I am still deciding upon—you _cannot_ speak. I don’t want to hear your voice. The job is to keep an eye on our merchandise, not chitchat with the staff and especially not with our _patrons_. Do you understand?”

He did. David nodded, feeling a bit like he was back in elementary school.

Geraldus drummed his fingers on his desk. “You haven’t worked in an establishment like this, have you?”

“I haven’t.” After two tours of duty he’d gone from job to job. Construction paid well but wasn’t reliable. He’d done some handyman work here and there, but he wasn’t certified for anything—it cost money to be certified and he couldn’t be certified without money. Most recently he’d been working security, alternating nights at a bar and a club. He’d spent most of his time hauling drunks out the door or listening to shitty music.

If a band couldn’t play then they played loud, and inevitably David would drive home from his shift half-deaf, ears ringing. He couldn’t handle it—there was enough of him broken, he didn’t need to lose his hearing as well.

Which brought him to a high-end antique shop, sitting across from a man who looked at him like he was something he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

But he needed the job, so David said, “I’m good. You can check my references. There was never any trouble when I was working places.” Which was because he put a stop to anything turned into trouble. Even the most belligerent drunks usually balked at David’s size when he stood toe-to-toe with them, but it wasn’t hard for him to drag someone out the door when he needed to. “And, I don’t need to talk. Not to get work done.”

The manager gave him an appraising look. “You don’t need a suit, but you will need something—work casual. Black or dark blue pants. A collared shirt. This is a professional _place_.”

“I got the job?” David asked.

“I’ll take a chance on you. I think you could do well.” David reached across the desk to shake the man’s hand. Geraldus looked from David’s clean but callused fingers to his now sheepish expression, sniffed, and said, “No need for that. Start tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp. Diarmuid will get you caught up.”

“Thank you, sir,” David said. He couldn’t hide his grin. Jesus, a job. A decent one, nine to five, good pay, just a quiet, nice little place. “I will. Be here, I mean.”

Geraldus gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. And, David? Maybe brush up on your spelling? Just a tip. I don’t think most potential employers are as lenient as I am.”

David left the store red-faced and embarrassed, but with a job, so—that was the important thing.

* * *

The next morning he arrived at half-past eight, just to make sure he was there on time. He didn’t have a key and the shop wasn’t open yet, of course, so David peered into the darkened front window trying to make out the details of the collection of antiques. Vases—porcelain? Floral patterned, pretty. Mannequins wearing slightly faded clothes some decades out of fashion. A sword—a _real_ sword? Was that legal to sell? Was there a—sword license you had to get for that?

A voice from behind him asked, “Something caught your eye?”

David turned and looked down, because the speaker was a good head-and-a-half shorter than he was. A young man with curly brown hair, rooting through his messenger bag for—keys. He pulled them out with a triumphant cry and smiled up at David with the prettiest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

“Give me a few minutes to open up and we can take a look at whatever it is you’re interested in, if you’d like,” the young man said.

Ah, shit. He thought David was a customer. With a shake of his head David said, “Sorry, no, I’m—I work here.” And then, at the puzzled frown on the young man’s face, he added, “My name’s David. The, uh, new security guy? Geraldus said to be here at nine, but I got here early, so.” He shrugged and rubbed the back of his head, feeling foolish.

“Oh, right!” He received a bright smile. “Geraldus mentioned you. I’m Diarmuid! It’s so nice to meet you.”

Diarmuid said it in a way that made it seem like it was actually a nice surprise to find out that the guy looming outside his workplace was his new coworker. Diarmuid’s hand was as warm as his smile—his grip surprisingly strong and pleasantly firm as he shook David’s hand.

He followed Diarmuid inside, too large, too lumbering, unsure where to step and where to stand. Everything seemed so clean, so fine, delicate, and _expensive_. The glass display cases held jewelry on velvet cushions—necklaces, earrings, bracelets. The paintings were framed in gold and silver. When David squinted at them he could see slivers of paintbrush bristle immortalized on the canvas, stuck in layers of oil paint. The mannequins were carefully arranged into coquettish poses, displaying hand-tailored outfits from what had to be half a century earlier. The polished wood floors that David was sure he’d scuff. There was an even an actual suit of armor in the corner— _goddamn_ —

David was a bull in a china shop.

As he stood there in front of the cash register, scared that he’d break everything in the shop with one wrong step, Diarmuid said, “I’m really glad you’re here. I’ve been asking Geraldus for extra security for ages now—the cameras are fine, but sometimes it’s scary closing up alone. And it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to.”

“I, uh, can’t talk,” David mumbled, stupid moron that he was.

Luckily his new coworker knew what he meant. With a sympathetic smile Diarmuid said, “Seen and not heard. It’s the same with me. I’m only supposed to speak when a patron addresses me. Otherwise—“ He mimed zipping his lips shut. “But when Geraluds isn’t here, I don’t think there’d be any harm in chatting a bit, do you?”

“Yeah,” David said. “I mean, no, I don’t. See the harm, I mean. But I’m—sorry, I’m not much of a talker.”

Diarmuid’s smile was soft and sweet. “I see. The strong and silent type. Will it bother you if I just talk out loud, then?”

David replied, “No. Of course not.”

For the next half hour Diarmuid cheerfully narrated the shop’s opening procedures as he went through them one by one. There was a checklist—but he’d apparently been working at the place long enough that he could just rattle off each step.

Lights on.

Open the safe.

Check the answering machine for messages.

Check the computer for emails.

Clean the glass display cases. Here Diarmuid rolled the cuffs of his sleeves back—he had, lean, freckled arms—and fished out a rag.

“We have to be careful with the lighting because some of our items are very old and very sensitive. So a few of the cases aren’t lit up or anything—they have to be really clean so you can see inside. But, I mean, we don’t have anything like—well, at some museums, they have really old books? The pages are too delicate for harsh light, so they’re kept in dark rooms—I mean, you walk in and its dim, the walls, ceiling, and floors are black, there’s only the barest of light to see what’s on display and read about them. We have the clothes, though—we change out the mannequins every so often so that the colors don’t fade anymore than they already have.”

He only paused to breathe, and in those moments David would make some sort of affirmative noise to indicate that he was indeed listening. And he was listening very intently. Every part of Diarmuid’s work seemed to excite him—he spoke with such enthusiasm—but that was soothing in its own way. To listen to someone so passionate about what he did.

Then the grandfather clock struck nine. At the sound of its chime Diarmuid sighed, pursed his lips, and went to flip the sign on the door from “closed” to “open.”

Geraldus arrived just then. He surveyed the store, gave Diarmuid a curt nod, and then glanced in David’s direction, an eyebrow raised in surprise. “You’re here.”

“You hired me,” David said, confused.

His new boss sniffed. “I did. And I’m taking a chance on you given your _background_ , so try not to disappoint me.”

Near the suit of armor came an angry exclamation. Diarmuid stood there, glaring at Geraldus.

“God bless you,” Geraldus said. “Are you feeling unwell? I don’t want you passing something along to one of our patrons.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “Just a bit of dust. It’s nothing.” Then, he added, “David got here half an hour early, you know—so we’ve gone through all the opening procedures.”  
“Well, that’s good. Don’t expect that extra half hour to show up on your paycheck, though. I specified nine o’clock on your schedule.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” David replied. He cast a glance at Diarmuid, who had gone flush with anger, and shrugged.

“You won’t get an extra time at lunch, either. We need you here. One hour.”

“Right,” said David. That wasn’t bad. He’d never had an hour-long lunch before. That’d be nice. He could eat and walk around the town for a little while, or maybe just sit down somewhere and take a rest.

And he’d had the misfortune of dealing with bosses like Geraldus before. There’d always been some officer obsessed with rules and regulations to the point of measuring their fucking facial hair and writing them up in between trying to not get shot. A guy who had a stick up his ass about appearances and break time—no, nothing out of the ordinary there.

But Diarmuid—who stood there, shocked and offended and protective on _David’s_ behalf—

That was new, and very welcome.

* * *

David liked the antique store’s quiet, slow pace. Anything was preferable to raging drunks and shitty bands and a long drive home with his head pounding from the relentless noise, of course, but he hadn’t expected his new job to be so—

Wonderfully slow?

When a customer— _patron_ , Geraldus called them patrons—came in to browse the _collection_ Diarmuid was there to exchange pleasantries and answer questions. Diarmuid spoke to visitors with a warm, easy manner, welcoming both those who were there to buy and those who were there to sightsee. He obviously enjoyed telling people about the antiques—he seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of everything in the shop and then some—but he also took a genuine interest in each person who walked in.

And when there weren’t any patrons he swept and cleaned and typed at his computer, humming quietly to himself but loud enough for David to hear.

All their conversations took place before the store opened and after it closed. They weren’t allowed to speak to each other during business hours. Geraldus wasn’t paying them for _frivolity_.

Seen and not heard. Boss’s orders. But—it was nice just to be there with Diarmuid throughout the day.

What he absolutely _fucking hated_ , though, was how fucking _creepy_ some of the repeat customers were. Or patrons, whatever.

Old, rich fucks who Geraldus scurried out to greet like a hungry rat. He shook their hands, thanked them for their continued _patronage_ , and encouraged them to direct any questions to Diarmuid before disappearing back into his office for whatever the fuck he did all day.

And the questions they asked were generally along the lines of, “When are we going out to lunch?” and “How hasn’t some man snatched you up yet?”

Diarmuid fended them off with rote, routine answers and bright, professional smiles. It seemed to be a game for some of the _patrons_. The thrill of hitting on the pretty store clerk when he had to be as friendly and polite as possible.

Once a guy had gotten real close behind Diarmuid as he’d reached for an old music box to show him—and David had _growled_ in warning.

“Who is _that_?” the man had asked, startled, as if he had just noticed David standing there for the first time. And maybe he had. None of these types—these sleazy assholes that waved their money around and relentlessly asked Diarmuid to lunch, to dinner, to their _house_ , seemed to realize that David was there at all. Like he was just part of the décor.

Diarmuid had carefully whirled around, music box in hand, and made his way back behind the counter to safety. “That’s David. He’s our new security guard.”

A bit ruffled, the man met David’s glare and said, “Well, it _is_ about time Geraldus hired someone. I’ve told him time and time again that this neighborhood isn’t what it used to be—and you working here by yourself.”

“But not anymore. Now I have David,” Diarmuid said, cheerfully, “And he keeps me very safe.”

If he’d still been working at the bar or the club, David could’ve just thrown the fuckers out. No harassing the servers or staff—that was a rule just about nearly every place he’d worked. But here, for all of Geraldus’s airs about professionalism and social graces and decorum it was apparently okay for anyone to treat Diarmuid like shit if they paid well enough.

The worst was Raymond de Merville. David had no idea who he was, what he did—just knew that he was a frequent _patron_ and wandered into the shop every week to look at the jewelry and the clothes and make pointed comments about them that inevitably involved Diarmuid’s body. A lot of guys said shit to Diarmuid but de Merville was by far the worst and the first time David saw Diarmuid deal with him he’d gone to straight to Geraldus’s office before the shop closed to tell him that the asshole was way out of line.

“We just had a guy come in who wasn’t acting right,” David had said.

“A thief, you think?”

“No, not like that. He was harassing Diarmuid. Said some shit to him, implying things.”

Geraldus’s face had darkened—but not at the news that someone had made his employee uncomfortable. “Watch your language. I’m not one of your drunken club-hoppers. Tell me what you mean.”

An angry flush crept onto David’s face, both at the reprimand and having to repeat what the man had said. “Like, telling him how pretty he’d look in some of the jewelry and clothes. Asking if he ever did house calls. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, David, that’s nothing,” Geraldus said with a scoff. “It’s just a bit of _banter_. And it’s good for sales. Diarmuid knows that. Some light-hearted flirtation.”

It hadn’t been, not at all. Diarmuid hated it when any of the _patrons_ thought that he was for sale as well, but this de Merville guy was relentless—he scared Diarmuid, anyone with eyes could see that. David had seen that exact expression too many times before—someone dealing with unwanted attention, wide-eyed and desperate for the interaction to end. When he’d been security at the club all he’d had to do was wander over, ask if there was a problem, and if there was he’d deal with it.

It was different here.

But he still had to look out for Diarmuid, so he said, “Look, that de Merville guy was getting really pushy and really inappropriate.”

His manager gave him a condescending smile. “I think I see the issue here. David, is it Diarmuid who had a problem with this man, or _you?_ ” Geraldus stood and made as if to clap David on the shoulder; his hand stopped short as he apparently thought better of it. “Raymond de Merville is one of our most loyal patrons. Diarmuid’s well acquainted with him. Your concern—and jealousy—is misplaced.”

David’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

“Now, will that be all?”

“Yes, sir,” he grumbled.

With a wave of his hand Geraldus dismissed both David and his concerns. “Then see yourself out.”

* * *

Even when he and Diarmuid became a little bit _more_ than coworkers—when they shared quick kisses before going inside the store and spent slow days finding ways to surreptitiously brush their fingers together and long nights curled up in one another’s arms—David still couldn’t do fuck-all about his boyfriend’s would-be suitors.

“It’s okay,” Diarmuid murmured late one night, tracing David’s lips with his index finger. “I can handle it.”

David answered, “I know you can. You were dealing with it before I got hired. But you shouldn’t have to be dealing with it, is the point. They can’t just talk to you like that.”

“Well, they do. And it’s not your job to scare them off.”

“I’m your _boyfriend_ ,” David mumbled. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Diarmuid had a way of changing the subject with a smile and a gentle joke. “ _Hm_ , is _that_ what a boyfriend’s supposed to do? I thought more kissing was involved.” He brought David’s hands to his bare hips and nestled against the sheets. “More _touching_.”

His skin was always soft and warm. David rubbed a thumb over a smattering of freckles dotted along Diarmuid’s side like a constellation. “I wanna take care of you,” he mumbled. He pressed a kiss to Diarmuid’s hip, above his belly button, his chest, his lips.

Diarmuid rubbed his shoulders. “You do take care of me, David. Let’s just leave work at work, okay? That’s all over with.”  
But it wasn’t because—because there was always someone saying gross shit to Diarmuid and not only did Geraldus not care, he actively _encouraged_ it because those fuckers bought more if they thought they had a chance of going out with the blushing store clerk. And it’d been hard to stomach before but it was agony now because Diarmuid was always so uncomfortable when it happened and Jesus Christ, what kind of man was David if he couldn’t keep his boyfriend safe and sound?

The problem remained unaddressed. But an unaddressed problem always came to a head, and it always did so in a big way.

So, of course David ended up beating the shit out of de Merville.

One fine day David came back from lunch to find the asshole back in the shop. Diarmuid had been trying to water the potted plants; he held the watering can in his hands as de Merville loomed over him. He was holding a small, black box, and David knew that inside was a vintage pearl necklace. He knew that because Diarmuid had sold it to de Merville the previous day.

He’d made a big show of it, asking Diarmuid to take it out of the display case, to hold it up to the light, to give him the history of the damn thing—it was just an old-ass necklace, fuck—and finally, to David’s fury, had given that odd half-smile, half-sneer, and asked Diarmuid to model it for him.

Startled and uncomfortable, Diarmuid had tried to refuse. “I couldn’t possibly—it’s too expensive for me to just—“

But Geraldus snapped, “Diarmuid, don’t be silly. Of course it’s fine. Put it on.”

And so Diarmuid had unbuttoned his shirt so that the pearls could rest against his freckled collarbone and so that de Merville could leer at him as he stood silent, head bowed.

“I’ll take it,” the man said.

“Excellent.” In one long, smooth movement Geraldus had unfastened the necklace, placed it in a cushioned box, and rung it up in the register. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Raymond.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” de Merville said.

When they’d gone back to Diarmuid’s apartment he’d actually _apologized_ , as if he’d done something wrong—betrayed David in some way—and _cried_. He’d sat down on the bed and wiped away tears of frustration and embarrassment and shame and David promised himself that job be damned, he’d fuck de Merville up the next time he saw him.

Lucky for David, de Merville couldn’t stay away.

The bell on the door jingled as David walked in, but neither Diarmuid nor de Merville noticed. The shop was quiet save for their conversation.

“Mr. de Merville, you’re making me uncomfortable—”

“Oh, am I?” The man sneered. “All that I’ve contributed to this business—“

“You’ve bought a number of the items in our collection and we thank you for your patronage,” Diarmuid said, stiffly.

“I can think of a number of ways you can thank me.”

Diarmuid continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “If you think I’m something to be _bought_ , you’re mistaken.”

“You _owe_ me,” de Merville snapped.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve bought enough junk from this store to keep it running _for months_. You think you’d have a job at all without me? The least you could do is show some _appreciation_.” One of his hands grabbed Diarmuid’s wrist—the young man let out a yelp of surprise—or maybe pain—and the other went to the small of his back to pull them flush together.

Yeah, fuck that. Fuck _all_ of that. David saw red. He barked, “You’re out of here. Right now.”

This time it was de Merville who asked, incredulously, “ _Excuse me_?”

Diarmuid wrenched himself out of de Merville’s grip and crossed his arms over himself. “Mr. de Merville, I really do think it’d be best if you left.”

“You can be certain that I’ll be telling Geraldus about this— _Hey_!” He snarled as David grabbed hold of his shirt collar and began to physically drag him out of the store. “Get _off_ , you—”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” David snarled. de Merville wasn’t a small guy, not by any means, and he was also completely sober. As soon as David forced him outside he grabbed his wrist and swung at David’s head with his free hand.

It was half a punch, half a slap, but it hit David right in the side of the head. The resulting ringing in his ear sent him reeling. He let go of de Merville with a grunt of pain and clapped a hand to his head.

“What the fuck!” de Merville spat. “You’re _fired_ , you here me? You think your boss will keep you on after this, you stupid prick? How _dare_ you put your hands on me?!”

David barked, “I’m going to break your fingers.”

His opponent wasn’t expecting that. His face went slack with surprise.

“I’m breaking them,” David promised, “But if I ever see you near Diarmuid again, I’m going to snap them clean off.”

“What—“

_Stupid prick_ , that’s what de Merville had called him. Well, maybe so. David didn’t have Diarmuid’s amazing breadth of knowledge, didn’t have Geraldus’s ability to feign politeness even when he was telling someone to fuck off with a look, didn’t have de Merville’s money and resources.

But fighting was simple—you kept yourself at an arm’s length until you were ready to strike, you didn’t telegraph your punches, and you hit the other guy until he didn’t get back up.

Maybe it wouldn’t get to that point. de Merville already looked nervous, his blue eyes shifting toward the door—perhaps waiting for Geraldus to storm out and put a stop to his security guard’s fury—and to the open street—as if David wouldn’t just chase him down and shred him bloody over the asphalt.

One thing was for sure, David was going to make him _hurt_.

de Merville’s teeth scraped David’s knuckles with the first blow—whether a sneer or the start of a shout, he’d wiped it clean off the man’s face. He stumbled back, stunned, and David followed his steps as he aimed for his nose. Easier to break. David knew that from experience.

The guy was tougher than he looked, though, David had to give him that. Two good hits—one to the jaw and one square in his nose—and de Merville was bleeding onto the sidewalk but still standing.

The bells on the door frantically jangled as Geraldus came storming out. “What are you _doing_? Have you gone completely insane?!”

What was insane was not _talking_ because some bastard who ran an antique store but didn’t know shit about anything he sold told him to. What was insane was keeping quiet when assholes bandying around money harassed his coworker—his _boyfriend_.

That was what David thought. What he said, quite simply, was “I **_quit_**.”

An odd gurgling noise sounded from behind him. de Merville’s had swallowed some of the blood streaming down his nose and was coughing it back up in disgust. His shirt was ruined—blood had dripped down his chin to stain the fabric.

Good, the motherfucker.

“I’m calling the police,” Geraldus said.

“Fucking call them—I’ll tell them _he_ —“ David jerked his head toward de Merville. “—got his ass thrown out for harassing the staff.”

“He wasn’t harassing _me_ —“

“Diarmuid _,”_ David snarled. “He put his hands on _Diarmuid_.”

Geraldus narrowed his eyes. “I get it now. We’ve talked about this. Your imagination—and your jealousy—is out of control.”

“David’s not _imagining things_!” Diarmuid cried. He stood in front the doorway, dressed in his coat with his messenger bag over his shoulder and David’s own large bulky coat awkwardly folded in his arms. “Mr. de Merville got angry because I wouldn’t go out with him and _grabbed_ me—and David threw him out! And that’s what I’ll tell the police if you call them! And I’m quitting, too, because you _always_ knew these sort of things happened and you _never_ did anything and—and I expect my last paycheck in the _mail_!”

It was the most David had ever heard Diarmuid say to Geraldus, and long overdue.

There was a small crowd gathered along the sidewalk. People peering out of the neighboring shop doors and windows.

Geraldus stared at Diarmuid in shock. David’s fight with de Merville was temporarily forgotten as he digested Diarmuid’s words. “What—what’ll I do in the meantime?” he asked. “I can’t run the store by myself!”

“Well, I’ve been doing it for _years_! So get used to it! David, let’s go!” He interlaced their fingers and led David away, down the street and out of sight.

* * *

It wasn’t until they got to Diarmuid’s apartment that David realized what a stupid fucking thing he’d done. His boyfriend watched him as he paced around the bedroom berating himself.

“Shit,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “Diarmuid, I’m sorry. Fuck. Now we’re both out of a job.”

“It was a terrible job,” Diarmuid murmured. “The work was fine, the pay was decent, but some of the customers—and Geraldus’s rules… And David, he was absolutely _horrible_ to you. I don’t know why I— _ugh_. We’ll find other jobs, and whatever they are they’ll be _better_. I’ll help you, David—there’s plenty of places that would appreciate a man of your skills—”

David kissed his cheek. “And there’s got to be plenty of places where the boss doesn’t throw you to the wolves to keep the store running,” he muttered.

Diarmuid hugged him. “I shouldn’t have just stood for that, and for so long. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to get into harm’s way for me.”

From what David recalled it’d been de Merville who’d gotten the brunt of the harm, but then again, he’d been very focused on making the man regret ever setting foot into that shop. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. He deserved what he got.” And David would’ve given him _more_ if he’d had the time.

“I’ve never seen you like that before,” Diarmuid murmured. He took David’s hands in his and brushed his lips against the scraped knuckles. “Did you have to do that kind of thing a lot, at your other jobs?”

Often enough. “Yeah, that’s part of being security. Got to be ready for a fight. People don’t like being told to that they’re being an asshole, even if it’s obvious. Tell them they’ve had too much to drink, they’re too loud, to leave that girl alone, or that guy already told them he wasn’t interested—“ He shot Diarmuid a meaningful look. “But, it just wasn’t the right place for me. Too loud, people never happy to see you. Always—always _something_. Had to leave.”

“Oh, David, I’m sorry. I know you liked being in the shop.” Diarmuid sounded miserable. “If I’d just stood up for myself earlier—“

David cut him off. It was easy to beat himself up about what happened, but damned if he was going to let Diarmuid feel badly about it. “Then we’d still both be working at a place with an asshole boss who had us sneaking around to _talk_ to each other. To kiss each other.” To punctuate that last statement he leaned closer to Diarmuid and lifted his chin up so that their lips could meet once more.

Still as sweet as the first time—when Diarmuid had thanked David for driving him home one night with a quick peck on the lips that’d left David absolutely floored and grinning like an idiot, walking on cloud nine all the way back to his car.

“It’ll be better. I know it will be—because—“ He struggled to say it, suddenly worried that saying it out loud would ruin it in some way—the dream he had. “We’re going to be—together, right? You and me?”

But Diarmuid’s eyes were as affectionate as always. “Of course, David! I love you.” He said it like it was just another fact that lived inside his head. Somewhere between lion’s paw feet on dark wood tables and hairwork jewelry there was a place where Diarmuid held all the love he had for David.

David released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Then I’m not worried. It’ll be fine.”

Diarmuid pulled him down onto the bed. “Well, we should celebrate. To new beginnings.”

“Yeah? What do you want to do?” David growled into his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

God, he could listen to Diarmuid’s laughter forever. He giggled, face buried in the crook of David’s neck, and said, “I’d like to make up for some lost time. All the kisses I never got to give you. All the things we never got to say.”

Kisses? Done. David dragged his beard across Diarmuid’s skin as he trailed kisses along his boyfriend’s freckled skin until he was shivering and squealing with laughter. “Won’t be too interesting—what I had to say to you. Just was always thinking how pretty you are, and how smart you are.”

“You think I wouldn’t find that interesting?” Diarmuid asked, giggling.

“And how _modest_ you are,” David finished. He burst into a bout of laughter himself. His shoulders shook as he tried to kiss again, but ended up just smiling against his cheek. “Wait—I got a question, actually. Once you told someone those old grandfather clocks were a pain—how come?”

Diarmuid was delighted. His eyes shone as he answered, “Oh! Well, it’s a bit difficult to pinpoint an antique clock’s age because they were so expensive—if you got one you were keeping it and passing it down, and it’d just be remodeled a bit. New clock face, new finials, things like that. So, you have to find the oldest part of the clock, basically, which means you have to be familiar with the changing styles throughout the centuries as well as regional variations, because—”

As he chattered on he idly hugged David to his chest and ran his fingers through his hair. David listened to his explanation, his heartbeat, and nestled closer to him—as close as he could get.

Yeah, this was better. Him and Diarmuid, just like this, ready to take on something new. 


End file.
